


know you like an inside joke

by spidermanhomecomeme



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bad Science, Drunk idiots, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Making Out, Meeting Again After High School, Missed Opportunities, Smut, and now, in other words, peter and mj are idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27609151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme
Summary: “You know what I think we should do?” MJ suddenly asks, propping herself up on her elbow—albeit, still unsettled, looking dangerously close to flopping forward.“What?” Peter dares to ask, his stomach flipping.“I think we should make out,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.Which, yes, Peter can wholeheartedly agree with that.As far as he’s concerned, it’s the greatest idea that anyone’s ever had. Ever.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 32
Kudos: 113





	know you like an inside joke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spideysmjs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideysmjs/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARIE!!! Hope you have one as wonderful as you are!! ily and hope you enjoy some good ol drunk confessions and smooches

It’s right as he’s throwing back his _nth_ shot of Everclear—honestly, he’s lost count, having lost his sharpie about an hour go, so everything’s been kind of fuzzy since then—that Peter realizes something about himself; as his expression twists into a fierce grimace when the vodka burns his throat and chest, his tongue involuntarily sticking out.

Maybe he doesn’t actually like Everclear. 

But there’s the slight tingle in his fingers and face, the buzzing heat radiating throughout his body, and then, he doesn’t care so much. 

It’s been a long finals week—a long _semester_ —and Peter’s not messing around; he’s getting _fucked up._

Or, well, he already is—fucked up. Has been for a while now. It’s getting to the point where his eyes feel heavier than his entire skull, and he’s pretty sure he’s one more shitty shot away from throwing up in one of the bushes outside. But that’s not going to keep him away from any of the hard stuff. Thanks to his super-liver and super-kidneys, it takes more than a few glasses of anything to get him anywhere near where he’s at right now. It’s not really a bad thing—the only downside being how much money he spends on alcohol. 

Which means—being the broke, unlucky college student-slash-undercover superhero that he is—that drinking’s just not something he does all that often. His bank account forbids it. 

Which is why now—at the frat party his new friend Harry had invited him to—it’s the perfect time to get wasted. The kitchen is stocked, loaded with almost every kind of cheap, ridiculously strong alcohol one can think of, the shelves littered with classic red solo cups and a rainbow of mixers. It’s all free real estate. 

Instead of going for another pour, Peter grabs his beer from earlier, nose wrinkling as he takes a too-warm swig. His stomach thanks him—mostly. 

He vaguely feels Harry clap him on the back before walking away, and he swears that Ned was just right next to him not ten seconds ago. 

But that also could’ve been ten _minutes_ ago. 

Again, time is fuzzy. 

“Ned?” He asks, feeling like his head’s moving faster than what his eyes can actually keep up with as he glances around. 

The floor’s sticky with what he assumes—and hopes—is just jungle juice. If it weren’t for the alcohol putting a blur over his senses, like a nice weighted, drunk blanket, the thumping bass would be overwhelming. The air is thick, humid in a way that makes his t-shirt sticks to his skin as he wades through the sea of sweaty, inebriated bodies. 

He tries asking around, obviously getting nowhere because everyone seems to be too gone to even know their own names, or to even care. 

He stumbles as he collides with someone, his still relatively full beer—okay, so maybe he doesn’t like beer either—sloshing onto the ground below. “Oh, shit—” He curses slowly. “Sorry, my bad—”

“—You’re good—”

He stops, frozen in place, swaying to keep his balance as he meets eyes with her. 

“Oh, my God—MJ!” A wavy, lopsided smile stretches across his face, his cheeks buzzing with warmth as she returns the expression, though perhaps a little less dramatic. 

“Hey, Pete— _Oomph—”_ Her words are cut off as he, without even thinking about it, wraps her into a quick, slightly uncoordinated, yet warm hug. Her hand is limp as she pats him on the back, though she doesn’t pull away immediately. “How’ve you been?”

Her words are slurred, syllables melting together, and he feels his skin light up at her warm breath tickling his neck. 

She keeps a hand on his elbow as he pulls back, steadying herself for a moment. 

“Good!” Peter answers. A beat passes where they only stare at each other. “It’s so good to see you!”

Her brow furrows and she leans closer, shouting a, “What?” 

He follows her movement, leaning in. “I said it’s so good to see you!” 

“What?”

Peter isn’t able to hide his laugh, even as he covers it with the back of his hand. He shakes his head, waving her off, before taking her hand and leading her to the kitchen area, farther away from the blaring music and yelling frat guys. And in his drunken haze, he offhandedly notices how nice her hand fits in his, how soft her skin is. Then again, he’d always kind of been able to guess that—given how much time in high school he’d spent pining after her, how many hours of his life he’d spent just thinking and wondering what it might feel like to hold her hand, to lace their fingers together. 

Alright, so, maybe his crush on her in high school—two years ago now, the two of them just ending their second semester of sophomore year—hadn’t been so _little_. Maybe his feelings for her were more than just curious thoughts about how it would feel to kiss his best friend. Maybe it wasn’t just those damn teenage hormones. 

Because now, as they stand in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, as she takes more than a minute to untangle her hand from his, he feels like he’s back at decathlon practice, staring at her with full-on heart-eyes as she talks. 

“It really is—really good to see you, MJ,” Peter manages, tripping over each syllable. 

A wavy smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she knocks him with the back of her hand. “It’s good to see you, too, Pete.”

And it’s not as if they’ve completely lost touch in the two years at Empire State, as if their friendship has completely ended. It’s normal for high school friends to grow at least a little distant after the transition to college. Schedules don’t line up, it becomes impossible to make plans. Papers and projects become the top priority. It happens. 

But that doesn’t make it any less painful, Peter thinks, rubbing a hand to his chest as he listens to MJ’s story about a professor that tried to get his class to adopt a guinea pig because it wasn’t getting along with his other one. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen MJ—that’s how bad it was. Sure, there’s the occasional group text that lights up his phone from her or Ned, but lately, the FOS chat has been full of crickets. 

And in his first two years here, in the distance, Peter had initially thought that he’d outgrown his little crush, that his feelings had faded. 

But he finds, when she laughs at some dumb joke he’s said—he can’t really remember what it was, either from how gone he is or how gone he is for _her_ —that he’s never been more wrong. 

He’s lost track of how long he’s been talking to her, lost track of where they are as they walk around together, but somehow, someway, they end up outside, on the sidewalk on the outskirts of campus. Neither of them have said anything; they just started walking. Going nowhere and anywhere. 

MJ stumbles slightly, a giggle bubbling up out of her as she swears up and down that she’s fine when Peter reaches out to grab her. 

That, and she points out that he’s in no condition. 

“Still Spider-Man,” he scoffs before tripping over a dip in the concrete. 

She opens her mouth, only to be cut off by the loud buzzing coming from her pocket. She lets out a single laugh, hand unsteady as she shows Peter the caller ID. “It’s Cindy!” Holding up a finger, she mouths a _just a minute_ as she answers. “Hey Cindy. What’s up?”

Peter rocks back on his heels, waiting patiently as Michelle blankly listens to her friend on the phone. 

“Cindy, I’m fiiiine. I’m with Peter. Yeah… Yeah… No, no, no, no. Don’t… Don’t come get me. I’m okay. Peter’s got me… He’s gonna take me home—” she looks up, unsuccessfully trying to wink at him. “—yeah. Oh… Okay.” She holds the phone out, waving it from side-to-side. “It’s for you.”

He can’t hold back his giggle as he takes it from her. “Hello?”

_“Peter! My guy!”_ Cindy’s equally drunk voice shouts. _“Thanks so much for finding her, oh my God. She just wandered off!”_

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Noooo. No problem.” He gives a thumbs up, before realizing that Cindy cannot, in fact, see him.

_“Well, okay. So. When you take her home, make sure you make her drink some water, okay? Okay? And—”_ She pauses, laughing at something someone said. _“Give her some ibu… ibuprofen… Tuck her in, a goodnight kiss—”_

“—Huh?” 

_“God, MJ’s gonna wish she was sober for this,”_ he hears her mumble into the phone. _“She’s gonna freeeeeak.”_

Cindy drunkenly gives Peter directions to MJ’s apartment, just off campus, given that MJ seems to preoccupied with just trying to walk without falling over—Peter’s not much better, to be honest, but dammit, he’ll try. 

“You wanna know something like—” MJ pauses after he hands her phone back, nearly dropping it. She fights back a hiccup, placing a hand to her chest to push through the discomfort. “—really weird?” There’s this expression on her face that he can’t quite put a name to, but it’s enough to make his stomach do a backflip. 

He leans against the counter, stabilizing himself to keep from falling over. “What?”

“I was super into you in high school.” She says it as if it’s the most casual, least impressive thing she’s ever said. Like it’s old news. 

It’s not old news to him. It’s _new_ news. Brand new. Because _what the fuck?!_

But there’s this big, dopey, drunk grin on his face as he looks at her, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide. “What? No way!” He swallows, nodding enthusiastically, pointing a wobbly finger at her. “I was super into you!”

It’s her turn to look surprised, and she lets out a more-than-tipsy laugh. “Seriously? Woah!”

“Yeah!”

“Jesus, we were both fucking idiots, then, weren’t we?” She snorts, a hand darting out to hold Peter’s arm as she sways dangerously. 

He laughs with her, shaking his head. “I guess… I guess we were!” 

“Well, damn,” Michelle says, pulling her keys from her wrist as they enter the lobby of her apartment building. 

Peter’s not quite sure where that leaves them—then again, his brain feels like it’s covered in a thick layer of fuzz right now, so any kind of thinking is a bit of a hefty task—as they take the stairs to the fourth floor. 

MJ stops, her hand on the rail; she looks ready to slump over and just pass out right there. After a beat, she holds a limp hand out, waiting expectantly. “Hey,” she says. 

He turns to look at her, the room spinning. “What?” 

“Carry me?” She asks, melting further into the rail. 

“Wha… What?” Peter does a double take, brows furrowed in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I’m drunk and I’m lazy and these are…” She gestures wildly at the steps. “... A lotta stairs.”

He lets out a loud snort. “But… I’m drunk, too!”

“I can’t carry you, though!” She reasons. “You’re the strong one. Let’s go, Spidey.”

Peter knows that he isn’t going to say no. How can he, when she’s looking at him the way she is? That little uptick of her lips, the tilt of her head, it’s what gets him into trouble, letting her piggy-back the whole way up the stairs. 

It doesn’t end in disaster like a sober him would have thought; it’s as if the added danger of dropping his best friend-slash- _girl of his dreams_ makes him hyper aware of just how fucked up he is. 

When they get to her door, she fumbles with her keys, snickering as she drops them not one, not two, but three times. 

“Need some help?” He asks, amused. 

She turns again and smiles slyly. _“Yeah,_ I do.”

And then, of course, she snorts. 

He laughs her off, watching as she’s finally able to unlock the door, kicking it open. 

It’s a spacious studio apartment; nice, a little upscale for a college student. There’s a full bed, pushed cozily in the corner, a couch on the other side of the room. The kitchenette is small, but filled with the essentials—especially for MJ. An entire corner of the counter seems to be dedicated to tea and mugs. 

He smiles at that. 

His breath catches, noticing MJ just… looking at him. 

Coughing is the only think that semi-eases the vague sense of awkwardness crawling up his spine. 

“Alright, I’m gonna…” He swallows. “‘M gonna get you some water…” 

“Oooh. Okay,” she replies, somehow still throwing that flirty tone in her voice. 

Peter fumbles around the kitchenette, opening and closing cabinets in search of a simple glass. He finds one, filling it with water. The ibuprofen is conveniently already on the counter, something in him telling him that she’d put it out in preparation for the evening—she’s smart like that. 

He looks over at MJ, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head as she starts to change out of her party clothes, tripping as she tries to wiggle out of her jeans. There’s an uneven smirk on her face as she glances up at him, her arms getting caught in the sleeves of her jacket as she shrugs it off. 

Remembering himself, Peter spins around, nearly falling over in the process, cursing. “Sorry!”

“It’s okay…” She draws out, the smile in her tone impossible to miss. He hears her yelp, catching herself on her dresser as she presumably struggles to get her shirt off. 

He waits another minute, listening intently as she rustles around in her drawers. 

When he turns around again, Michelle’s fallen onto the bed, sleep shorts and a shirt on, lounging back, stretching her arms above her head, immediately drawing Peter’s eyes to the way her shirt rides up, showing a sliver of her toned stomach. 

But he ignores it—or at least he tries his best to—gingerly placing the pill and glass of water on her side table before taking one giant step back. 

“Here,” he says softly.

“Ugh, God, Peter, you’re the best,” she says, smiling up at him. “You always are—always have been, you know?” 

“MJ…” He draws out, pushing the glass of water on the night stand closer to her. “Drink. The water.”

“Hey, hey. Hey,” she says, waving him off, her eyes closing. “You, too. You’re drunk.” 

“I don’t have to!” He insists, his head jerking back, voice coming out high. “Spider-Man, ‘member? I don’t get hangovers.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Her eye roll is more playful than anything actually jealous. The glass clinks on the side table as she sets it down, empty. The pill, gone. She looks up at him, scooting closer to the wall. 

“What… What are you doing?” Peter asks, unable to keep from chuckling, hiding his mouth. 

“Making room—” she replies, patting the side of the bed invitingly, squinting her eyes and wiggling her brows. “—c’mere.” 

Peter breathes out a laugh, shaking his head. “No… No, MJ. I don’t think so. Don’t think… so.” 

Her expression falls. “You’re not gonna stay?” 

“No—Uh—I don’t… I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Why not? We’re just gonna have a sleepover. It’s fiiiine.” 

“I mean, you’re pretty drunk.”

She blows a puff of air through her lips, thoroughly unimpressed, her stare deadpan. “Uh…” 

Peter takes less than a second to think, body slumping as he relents. It doesn’t take much to convince him when she just keeps patting the side of the bed like she’s trying to get a puppy to come up there. “Fine…”

"Yaaaaaaay," she says, her voice a slurred murmur against the pillow. “There's maybe some—some... shirts or—or somethin' in the... the—" she gestures wildly to the dresser on the wall opposite her bed. "—that thing."

Peter shrugs, looking down at his current outfit. “Nah… I’ll just… take my pants off.”

“Ohhhh okay,” she replies, squinting in a way that he assumes is supposed to be sultry.

A light, fuzzy laugh bubbles up out of him, feeling the nerves buzzing with the alcohol still in his system. He doesn’t think either as he bends to take his jeans off, letting them slide to the ground, nearly falling and eating shit on the wood floors. He crawls on next to her in his boxers and t-shirt, though still keeping his distance. 

“See?” She asks, gesturing to the space between them. “The bed’s not so bad.”

Peter can feel himself melting into the pillows already, even with his heart beating violently against his ribs. Even drunk off his ass, being in a bed with his high school crush is enough to keep him in reality. “‘S comfy…” he mutters. 

“You know what I think we should do?” MJ suddenly asks, propping herself up on her elbow—albeit, still unsettled, looking dangerously close to flopping forward. 

“What?” Peter dares to ask, his stomach flipping. 

“I think we should make out,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Which, yes, Peter can wholeheartedly agree with that. 

As far as he’s concerned, it’s the greatest idea that anyone’s ever had. Ever.

He feels himself smile at her suggestion. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, like. We both were into each other. I think—as scientists—” She reaches out to smack him when he starts snickering, though her hand misses. “—shut up! As… as scientists, we need to explore this. We need to test if this whole feelings thing went away, you know? We need to see what we missed, being stupid.”

Peter sits up on his elbow with her. “As a scientist,” he starts, before snorting into another giggle. “As a ser-es… a—a serious science—scientist—fuck that’s hard to say…”

The sound of MJ’s consistent, drunk laughter makes it exponentially hard to even finish his thought. 

“I…” He pauses, mostly for dramatic effect. “Agree—”

Before he can even finish that last vowel, her mouth is covering his, her lips clumsy and hot. He lets out a surprised grunt as she grabs the neck of his t-shirt, tugging him closer, her other hand tangling into his curls as she drapes her leg over his hips. If he had thought he was sobering up before, the taste of her lips, her tongue as it slips into his mouth makes him feel as though he’s more wasted than ever. 

His hands find their way to her waist, and it only takes one gentle nudge before she’s crawling on top of him, her legs on either side of his. Greedy touches, fistfuls of t-shirts, Michelle’s gentle moans as his hand falls to the top of her ass, as she subtly grinds against him, all of it sends his head spinning.

But then, he can’t hold back his laughs when her elbow clumsily knocks his ribs, or when his head bumps hers; when he flips them over, his mouth hungrily finding hers again, when she gently smacks his arm because he’s leaning too much on her hair. 

Her giggles are honestly his favorite sound in the world—especially when it’s because she’s trying and failing to keep herself from doing so. 

It’s messy and uncoordinated, this impromptu make-out session, but Peter finds that he doesn’t give a single fuck. 

“Maybe—” she says, more than a little breathless, as he pulls away. “—Maybe we should try this tomorrow. Sober.” 

Peter’s heart nearly bursts at the way she’s grinning up at him, her cheeks warm, bottom lip caught between her teeth. He nods, a blurry smile on his face as he falls back onto his spot, turning on his side to face her. 

“Definitely,” he finally says, unable to keep his eyes off of her face. “You’re so pretty,” he blurts, his voice slow. 

“Therefore, I have value?”

“What? No—” 

Her expression breaks before he can freak out anymore. “I’m messing with you.” 

“Oh—oh.” He buries his head into the pillow, laughing. 

“You’re pretty, too,” she says when he looks back up at her. “Always have been,” she adds, her voice teetering on the edge of sleep. 

Peter’s heart does jumping jacks in his chest, his stomach getting ready for the Olympics with how many flips it’s doing. “MJ, I like you… So… So much…” He can feel himself falling dangerously closer to sleep, but he doesn’t have the energy or sobriety to fight it. “So much. Still. Now. Always.”

Her hand moves to rest on top of his, and he looks up at her face, warmth blooming when he sees her eyes closed, her mouth slightly parted as she mumbles back to him. “I like you, too.” A sleepy smile pulls at her lips. “Still. Now. Al….ways.”

Morning comes sooner than later, light filtering through the curtains and right onto his face. Nature's alarm clock, of course. It hits him, feeling the tickle of her curly hair against his cheek and nose, his arm draped over her middle, his hand resting against the warm, soft skin of her arm, everything that happened last night. But he doesn’t feel fear, or regret. Only the butterflies in his stomach as he resists the urge to cuddle closer to her, to pull her back against him. 

Careful not to rouse the sleeping girl next to him, he sits up, ruffling a hand through his hair, stretching his arms above his head with a long, drawn-out yawn. He peeks over her shoulder, getting a glimpse of her peaceful expression, her cheek pressed into the pillow. She shifts, rolling onto her back, and for a moment, he almost thinks she’s waking up, but then she sinks back into the mattress. 

No, still asleep.

And still effortlessly pretty. 

So much so that it makes his heart clench. 

He figures he can at least make some breakfast for her; a nice cup of tea. Maybe an omelet. She's bound to be a little bit hungover. Food, when she's up, will be nice. Without waiting, he gets to work. He's not really sure how to make tea—given she does the whole "loose leaf" thing that he's not quite sure how to measure. He knows there's like a diffuser... infuser thing. Whatever it's called.

He'll figure out.

Maybe the omelet first.

He jumps when the pots and pans clank together, his head whipping around only to find MJ still sleeping soundly, as if he hadn't just dropped her entire cabinet. Blowing a puff of air from his lips, he gets back to the task at hand, tossing the pan and a kettle full of water on the stove and cranking it up to medium heat.

He finds the eggs easy enough— _refrigerator, duh_ —and uses a bowl that he thinks is appropriate for cracking the shells. He remembers what May always told him, that one thing about making sure to crack them on the counter, or something. He beats them with the fork, careful still not to make too much noise. Some salt, some pepper, and it's ready to go.

He decides to have a try at the tea, finding the infuser-diffuser thing, and then just staring at the wide assortment of loose leaf that she has on her counter. He makes a safe choice, he thinks, going with the English Breakfast tea—if she has it, she probably likes it, right?

And then, that's when he hears it. She's rustling in the bed, sitting up, blinking blearily as she looks around the room. Her brow is furrowed, eyes squinting as she runs a hand over her face. When her stare falls on him though, she seems to relax, the corner of her lip tugging into a faint smile.

"Oh, hey."

Peter jumps, even though he literally just saw her sit up. "Hi!" He says, perhaps a little over-enthusiastic. "Uh, morning."

"What are you doing?" She asks slowly, shifting her legs to the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Just—" Peter smiles, looking down at the egg puddle in the middle of the pan, offering a sheepish shrug as he pokes at it with a spatula. "—Thought you might want some breakfast.”

He can’t see her, but he can practically feel her toothy grin as she gets up, walking over to look over his shoulder. 

“An omelet?” She asks, nudging him with her elbow. “Fancy.”

“Yeah, didn’t know how you—” he huffs out a nervous laugh. “—liked your eggs. In the morning.”

She throws him a deadpan stare, though there’s the faint upward tick at the corner of her mouth—one that he can’t miss. 

“Were you making tea?” She asks, grabbing the cup from the counter, the diffuser-infuser thing sticking out of it, waiting for boiling water. 

“Uh—yeah,” Peter says, flipping the egg in the pan. “How’d I do?”

“Pretty well, actually,” she replies, her lips tugging into a satisfied frown. “You used the infuser and everything. Honestly thought you might just put the leaves in there on their own,” she snorts. 

_Infuser, that’s it._

“You have so much faith in me,” he teases. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she jokes back, and he feels his heart skip. 

They both finish up in the kitchen, MJ taking over tea-making duties while Peter puts the final, cheesy touches on her omelet, neither one bringing up the night before, or the fact that they’d woken up in the same bed. 

They sit on the couch, catching up as she eats her breakfast, laughing just like they used to, as if no time had passed at all. It’s a comforting feeling, knowing that they were able to just pick up where they left off, that their friendship isn’t some fragile think that can be shattered by distance. 

It’s not as if either of them have forgotten their clumsy makeout session from the night before. There’s a tension in the air, something hanging between them that feels about a million times bigger than before. If Peter thought there was an unspoken thing when they were teens, he has no idea what to call this. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks, hurrying to shut his thoughts up, finishing up the last bite of his toast—the toast she’d so graciously made for him. “How’s the hangover?”

She sniffs, shrugging. “I don’t really have one.” 

“Oh, good. Good.” He nods. 

“Yeah, I mean, I feel a little bit like my entire body is a marshmallow, but not bad.” 

At that, he cracks a smile. “Sucks.”

“Eh,” she puts her tea down, pushing her empty plate in front of her. “I’ve actually been reading up on hangover cures recently. Even for the small ones that aren’t that bad.”

Peter raises his brows, taking a sip of his own tea. “Oh?”

“Yeah, apparently there are a lot of studies that say making out can cure those.”

He nearly chokes on the hot liquid, coughing as he tries not to spit it all over her and her coffee table—or fall off the couch. “...What?” 

She reaches over, taking the last bit of his toast and popping it into her mouth. “Kissing. You know.” 

Peter finds himself laughing, his heart beating impossibly fast. “Makes sense to me.”

But then, when she starts leaning in, he stops her. 

“What—um… What are we doing?” He asks through a nervous huff of laughter. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing, yet,” she answers smartly, her voice soft. “Just…” She shifts, somehow edging closer. “Two friends. Sitting on a couch. About to make out.” 

“Just friends?” Peter asks under a thin-veil of confidence, feeling as if his heart is a bout to fall right out of his ass. “Or…?”

“If you want it to be.”

A beat passes, and Peter can’t help the way his eyes keep drifting down to her lips. He swallows, finding himself lost in some sort of trance as his gaze drags back up her face. Then, when their eyes meet, he sees that same tint of nerves that he feels. She’s anxious for him to speak, just as he is for her. 

“What if I don’t… want it to be?”

MJ breathes out a smile, her eyes searching his expression before settling on his mouth. “Good. Me neither.”

“I really like you,” he says, unable to fight the way his lips curve into a smile. 

She returns the expression, and he sees the bubble of nerves well within her. 

“I really like you, too.”

And it happens in slow motion, the first brush of her lips against his, her hand coming up the rest on the back of his neck, fingers tickling the bedhead curls there. It’s tentative, almost shy, the way she kisses him, and his chest flutters in fond amusement at the quick change. It’s slow, how their lips move together, as if the two of them are stuck savoring this moment, not wanting it to ever end. 

Peter’s not sure a kiss has ever made him feel this way. 

His hand falls to her waist, gently tugging her closer, and she readily moves with him, draping her legs over his as he pulls her into his lap. Her skin is impossibly soft under his touch, somehow softer than it had been in his dreams. It hits him how lucky he is, how this can’t be real, as her tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slipping into his mouth. Making out with his high school best friend on her couch was one of the last things he’d expected to be doing last night. 

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how addictive it is, touching her, kissing her. The sounds she makes, the muted, breathy little whines that she thinks he can’t hear as his hands travel her body, the gentle curve of her hips, the dip in her waist, his thumb smoothing over her ribs—his senses are dialed to eleven. And it all goes straight to his dick. 

When his thumb just barely brushes the underside of her breast over her t-shirt, he exhales sharply, yanking his hand away as if he’d touched a hot stove. “Shit. Sorry,” he says, pulling away from the kiss. 

There’s a wavy smile on her face as she breathes out an amused, nervous huff. “It’s okay.” 

And she surprises him—again—taking his hand and putting it back, though a little higher than where he had left it, her lips capturing his again enthusiastically. She still guides his hand, moving it higher, encouraging him to cup her breast.

He does so, more than happy to oblige. 

If that’s what MJ wants, then it’s what she’ll get. 

But he thinks he might die. 

As if on instinct, his thumb swipes over her pebbling nipple, and he kneads the soft flesh over the thin cotton of her sleep shirt. The rhythm of her lips on his falters as she inhales shakily, before melting into him again. Impatience overtakes her, and she takes his hand again, slipping it underneath the hem of her shirt. And immediately he knows what she wants, but either from wanting to take his time or wanting to see what happens when he pushes her buttons—honestly either is likely—he resists, his movements agonizingly slow as he smooths over her stomach, her ribs, her back, reveling in the feel of her skin underneath his hands. 

He gets lost for a moment—lost in just an overwhelming feeling of _finally_ —when her hands pull at the back of his neck, one tangling into his hair, twisting and gripping. With a soft laugh against her lips, he cups her bare breast—and at that moment, he’s not sure who feels more relief. 

Neither of them knows how long they stay like this, lips and tongues moving together, hungry and full of want, wandering hands greedy and curious. 

Peter’s almost fully hard against her thigh when she takes his hand and drags it down her stomach, her muscles twitching underneath their joined touch. His fingers dance along the waistband of her shorts, dipping underneath as his mouth moves from her lips, leaving heated kisses along the underside of her jaw. 

“You know,” he says between kisses. “I think I read that same article about hangover cures.” 

Michelle laughs, the sound coming out in a shuddering sigh as she pushes his hands under her shorts. “Yeah?”

His touch is ghostlike over her covered center, his hand cupping her too-gently over the soft, damp cotton of her underwear. 

“I read that an orgasm can help… with your hangover.”

This time, her laugh is full, genuine. “Yeah, I think I read that, too.” 

Peter’s preoccupied with the expanse of her neck, busy acquainting himself with the soft skin. He hums, the vibrations causing her to wiggle in his lap. 

“We should explore that, you know. For science,” Michelle suggests with a false sense of nonchalance, one of her hands coming down to clutch at the sleeve of his t-shirt. “I think I’m still hungover.” 

“We should definitely try that out, then,” he smiles into her neck, simultaneously pressing a teasing finger against her clit through her underwear. 

Her grip on his shoulder and in his hair tightens as he draws a line up and down, side to side, circling around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his touch barely there. He thinks she’s about to tell him off, tell him to get a move on, when he finally dips his hand under the lace hem of her underwear. 

She gasps as he uses a finger to dip into her entrance—once, twice, three times—easily sliding in and gathering her arousal, spreading it around. His eyes squeeze shut, almost painfully hard, enjoying the feeling of her wetness coating his fingers, warm and slick. He thinks he could sit here forever, working her heat, hearing the way she whimpers as he scrubs her clit, her nails digging into his shoulder. 

He keeps his pace, lips finding hers in a messy, clumsy kiss. He loves the feeling of her coming undone in his arms, the way her body arches into him. At this point, he feels like his dick might actually explode—because MJ starts a dangerous game, lost in her own euphoria. He grunts into her mouth as she starts palming him through his boxers, the rhythm of his fingers working over her clit stuttering as the wind is knocked out of him. 

The competitive nature that Peter’s not always proud of kicks in—right now, it’s _perfectly fine_ —and he speeds up his rhythm over her clit, dipping down to her entrance again, more heat pooling in his stomach when he finds her even wetter than before. His fingers find their way back to the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves, and he’s determined; he picks up his previous pace, keeping it steady, and he smirks when she breaks the kiss, her hand on his dick faltering as she starts to pant his name. 

Her thighs close around his hand, their grip trapping him there—though honestly, he doesn’t think he would ever complain about that—every muscle in her body tensing and twitching as she throws her head back. She comes with a wet gasp, her hand darting out to cling to his wrist, holding him there as she rides out her high. 

Peter slows his movements, his touch turning gentle, letting up his pressure on her clit. When she seems to come back down to reality, he pulls his hand from her underwear, settling it on her hip as she pulls him in for a searing kiss. 

“Feeling better?” He asks, clearing his throat when he hears how scratchy his voice is. 

Michelle sighs, a smile on her lips as she touches her forehead to his, closing her eyes. “Much better.”

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling away to dip his fingers into his mouth, holding her gaze as he sucks and licks them clean. 

Her breath catches as she watches him, enough to make a grin tug at the corner of his lips. At his smile, her eyes narrow challengingly. 

But he doesn’t miss the way her own mouth seems to curve with amusement. 

Without another word, she climbs up from his lap, dropping to her knees in front of him. And all he can do is stare, jaw slightly dropped, eyes wide. “What’s… What’re you up to?” 

The smirk she pulls makes his stomach flip. 

“Helping _you_ now,” she replies, settling between his legs, dragging her nails up his thighs. Her hands pause at the waistband of his boxers, her eyes flitting up to his. “Is that okay?” 

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Of course. But, uh—” He blinks dumbly. “—I don’t have a hangover.”

“This is still for me, don’t worry,” she winks. “I think later in that article they mention giving as well as receiving.”

And in his surprise and excitement—his brain’s decided to take the day off—and he gives a lame thumbs up. 

She snorts a laugh—a sound that he can’t help but want to hear over and over again. It’s cute. 

MJ doesn’t say anything else as her hand dips into his boxers, whipping his erection out and getting into the worlds longest staring contest with it. An involuntary groan slips past his lips when she licks a long stripe up his base. Her grip is gentle as she leans in to plant a deceptively chaste kiss on his tip, her gaze flitting up to his, her eye contact steady as her kisses melt over him, open mouthed and wet. 

She pulls away, only for a moment, wetting her hand and pumping him a few times, looking up with a smile that makes his heart flutter and his chest flare.

Earlier, he’d thought he’d die—but never has he been so wrong. 

This might be it—the moment his eyes screw shut, his head thrown back on the couch, his life flashing before his eyes when she finally takes him into her mouth, already starting a steady pace as she bobs her head, taking him in deeper each time. Her hand stays wrapped around his base, pumping with the rhythm of her mouth. 

It’s warm. So incredibly warm. He cracks his eyes open, daring a glance down at her between his thighs, choking on a groan at the sight of her lips wrapped around him so _perfectly._ One of his hands shoots out to thread through her curls, nearly losing himself when she moans, the vibrations almost making him forget where he is. 

Her pace turns unforgiving; she hollows her cheeks as she sucks, her tongue swirling around the head of his cock, and he feels himself teetering closer and closer to that sweet, sweet release. The coil in the bottom of his stomach tightens, growing hotter with each bob of her head, each squeeze of her hand. 

It’s when it’s almost unbearable, how much he’s holding off, that he taps the side of her face, warning her. “MJ, I’m gonna—”

She pulls off of him with a pop, and he already misses the warmth of her mouth and her hands. 

But it doesn’t seem so bad when she stands up, tugging her shorts and soaked underwear down her legs, pulling her shirt over her head and tossing it to the side. He realizes he’s staring, slack jawed at her fully bare before him, his hands instantly reaching out to wrap around her waist, bringing her into his lap. 

“Hold on, Tiger,” she chuckles, pushing up on his shoulders. Her voice is breathless, higher as she tries to gather herself. There’s a hint of vulnerability in her eyes, a look that makes his heart warm as he tenderly smooths his hands over her skin. “Condom?” She finally manages. 

Peter swallows thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah sounds like a… a good idea.” 

She’s off him in an instant, rushing to her bedside drawer and rifling through as Peter kicks off his boxers and throws his shirt somewhere across the room. It takes her less than a minute—Peter thanks _God for that_ —tearing the silver foil as she walks over. His breath catches as she rolls it on him, his own hand covering hers and moving with her. 

He doesn’t want to wait anymore—he can’t wait anymore. He reels her by the hips back into his lap, catching her before they can bonk heads. “Eager?” She asks teasingly. 

A smirk pulls at his lips as he takes himself into his hand, his eyes on hers as he teases her entrance, coating himself in her wetness. Her breath catches as he circles her clit with his tip, her hands on his shoulders tightening, nails digging into his skin as her hips buck into him, chasing the feeling. “You were saying?” He asks, lining himself up. 

She breathes out a laugh. “Shut up.” 

And without another word, she lowers herself, their shaky sighs of _finally_ mingling. Peter’s head falls to the crook of her neck as he moans lowly, softly, his eyes screwing shut at the feeling of her fitting _so fucking well_. All he knows in that moment is warmth, his breath hitching as she suddenly clenches around him. 

“Fuck—sorry,” she manages, inhaling sharply as she shifts in his lap. “Or—” she chuckles airily. “No. I’m not.” 

Peter shakes his head, laughing into her skin, his arms around her waist pulling her flush against his chest. He kisses the top of her breast. “Yeah, don’t be.” 

It’s as she starts moving, slowly at first, languidly riding his cock, wanting to savor this moment forever that Peter wonders how someone can be so perfect, how one person can crush every expectation he’s ever had, blowing them out of the water. He knows he’s lucky as MJ swirls her hips with him deep inside of her; it’s intoxicating, watching her come undone above him, her head thrown back, mouth parted and chest heaving as she takes him. He rocks his hips up to meet hers with each thrust, his head falling back against the couch as she coaxes harsh gasps and breathy curses from his lips. 

And that familiar coil tightens again, and he’s teetering just on that edge, _so fucking close_ to snapping. But he’s determined, his thumb snaking down her front and finding her clit, his swipes in time with each snap of their hips. 

Soon, he feels her muscles tense, fluttering around him, he hears the catch in her throaty moan, mouth open as she pants, hot and wanting. Her pace quickens, chasing that high, and he feels her tighten impossibly around his cock, her body going rigid as she comes with a cry. It’s enough to have him lose control, his movements erratic and full of need as he relentlessly pumps into her. His vision goes white—he’s sure it does—as he comes inside of her, emptying himself into the condom. 

She falls against his chest, breathing heavily, a laugh under her tone as she mutters praises into his skin. 

“I feel great now,” she jokes as she breaks away, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Thanks for that.” 

Peter laughs, still breathless, still reeling from how lucky he’d been to have MJ do that to him. “Anytime,” he clears his throat. 

But her brows knit together, her lips twisting in thought. “We might need to try something else later though. In case it comes back. You know.” 

Peter looks at her, brows raised in curiosity. “Later?” 

“How long do you think you got?” 

“Half-an-hour?”

It’s her turn to be impressed. “Perfect.” She smiles, kissing him again. “For science.” 

And he grins back at her. 

“Yeah. For science.”


End file.
